


A Tide Taken at the Flood

by lindmere



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Disability, Gen, Service Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-15
Updated: 2012-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindmere/pseuds/lindmere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After waiting six years for the Enterprise, Pike must choose whether to remain her captain or step aside--a decision that, like his physical and mental condition, is far from simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tide Taken at the Flood

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by kittywake and inspired by her question: Is Pike's wheelchair use the reason he can't be captain, and if so, why? If not, what's the real reason?
> 
> Content includes mild language (bad words) and references to offscreen sexual situations. Deals frankly with the emotional and physical consequences of Pike's captivity and torture on the _Narada_ , including depression, nightmares, and feelings of low self-worth. Explicit medical details of the effect of the creature on Pike's spinal cord.

_The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco._ It’s a respectable old joke, and one Pike repeats to himself often as a kind of talisman when he has to rise in the cold, grey pre-dawn. On the floor beside him, Darcy raises her yellow head and lifts her tail, readier for the day than Pike will ever be. She’s been here a few weeks, and his resentment at her presence has segued first into tolerance and eventually grudging enjoyment. It’s nice to wake up to another living being, even if he wishes the golden-haired companion were human and in bed next to him. At his command, Darcy pulls his chair level with the bed, helps him balance as he transfers to the shower, brings him his towel, and helps tug his pants up. He’s getting to the point where he could do most of these things without her, but she enjoys doing what she was trained for. Pike knows the feeling. He also remembers those early days when he stubbornly attacked each task and wrestled it into submission, only to feel completely exhausted and demoralized by 1600 hours. Everything Darcy does for him is a little bit in the bank against later.

By the time Pike wheels to the table with his coffee and egg and miso soup balanced precariously in his lap, the pale excuse for dawn has broken over the city. Rivers of fog pour through the Golden Gate, cascading over the Bay, completely shrouding the older, lower buildings. If Pike were in his own condo, the 21st Century low-rise in Mission Bay he’d waited five years for, he’d be looking up at a fog ceiling that would erase three centuries of downtown development. As it is, he’s temporarily on the 124th floor of a posh apartment building that’s something of a ghetto for Starfleet senior officers. The turbolift is rife with them, and there are days when he can’t get out of the building without getting sucked into a conversation about the budget or promotions or the Romulan Matter.

This morning, he’s lucky enough to make the ride alone, or alone except for Darcy. The dog recognizes the number 124 and can push the button, a feat that shocked Pike the first time. She’s a jukebox of such tricks, a genetically engineered prodigy so perfectly suited for her job that Pike has seen two of her clones in this neighborhood alone. He has, at times, only half-jokingly accused her of being a spy, of telling Admiral Nogura when Pike spends his evenings reading Patrick O'Brian novels instead of situation briefs.

The street is close to deserted; the city seems to have made the sensible decision to sleep in. The exception is Li-Wen, owner of the corner bakery, who gives Pike a nod and a wink as he goes by. She has a lovely smile and the best sourdough  _boules_  in town, and Pike has thought about doing something about it more than once, but the prospect is, as so many things are these days, fraught with implications. Pike is famous, something he never wanted, and in the absolute last possible way he ever wanted to be: he is not a hero, but a martyr. He doesn’t want pretty Li-Wen or anyone else for that matter to sleep with him as if she were throwing a wreath into the water.

A man is waiting beside him, juggling a couple of grocery bags, distracted enough that the double take comes almost a moment too late. Pike knows the sequence all to well—the flicking sideways glance, the surprised re-check, the eyebrows lifting and mouth opening before the brain has a chance to engage.

“Captain Pike! I mean, Admiral Pike!” He plunks the bags down, blocking Pike’s way. Darcy looks at him disapprovingly. “I’ll only take a minute of your time, sir, but I just want to say—thank you for your sacrifices for this planet. I hope when it comes time to give the Romulans what’s coming to them, there’ll be a photon torpedo with your name on it.”

“It wasn’t the Romulans, you know,” Pike says mildly. “Just one particularly deluded Romulan.”

The man is already shaking his head before Pike has finished. “I’m sorry, sir, with all due respect, I’ve read a lot on the nets, and it’s pretty clear that the whole Nero thing was just a cover for a Romulan plot to destroy Vulcan. There’s no way a bunch of miners could have built that ship on their own. And the  _Enterprise_? That kid Kirk? It all goes back to the  _Kelvin_. You see, Starfleet sent it on a secret mission to—“

“Well!” Pike says with false brightness, interrupting. “It seems you know more about it than I do. If Starfleet wants to debrief you, I’ll tell them they can find you at Fulton Market in the produce aisle.” And with that, he executes a tight turn with his chair and leaves the man behind, mouth still agape.

As usual, the fog clears halfway across the Bridge as if it’s getting kickbacks from the Marin County Tourism Board. The sun feels wonderful, and Pike can measure his procrastination in tenths of kilometers per hour. Just before the gates to Starfleet Headquarters, Pike stops at a coffee cart. Between meetings and physical therapy, he’s looking at another 12-hour day, and he figures that caffeine, like pain meds, is best taken ahead of need. He stops there almost every morning, and appreciates the fact that the proprietor never refuses to take his credits, although this morning, as he often does, he pulls a stale cruller from inside the cart and gives it to Pike to give to Darcy. Pike lets the dog gingerly give the man the credit strip and receive it back so that the doughnut can be her reward. He thinks about making her show off a few of her tricks, but it seems like an insult to her professional integrity. Instead, he tears the cruller into bits and tosses them in the air. She leaps, yipping softly, golden hair streaming out behind her. A beautiful animal, pure joy in motion. Pike thinks, not for the first time, that he should take her down to Presidio Park and let her run around for a while and just be a dog. But of course Darcy isn’t just a dog, any more than Pike is just a man. They both have a purpose, if not a destiny, and neither of them will be free to run on green grass for quite a while.

+++++

It’s Day 3 when Kirk comes to visit, or so they tell him. Pike has been sedated, asleep, or floating on painkillers on and off for so long that he’s completely lost track of time. The white lights of the ICU tell him nothing and neither do the doctors and nurses, whose response to his raspy questions is uniformly a vague smile and another hypo. He hasn’t been in any pain and he supposes he should be grateful, but without it his brain is having a hard time making sense of what’s happening with his body. He can move his head and arms but nothing else. He supposes it’s some kind of chemical restraint so that he doesn’t thrash around and compound the spinal cord damage.

Kirk has McCoy in tow as usual, and they’re both back in their cadet uniforms. It looks strange now, like grown men in short pants. McCoy’s dark eyes slide inexorably toward the bank of displays above the biobed. Kirk pulls up a chair so he’s level with Pike’s head and sits down. After a moment, Pike sees McCoy’s gaze shift to the two  _Enterprise_  captains, and he mumbles that he’ll wait outside, and hastily retreats.

“Don’t go far,” Pike calls after him, hearing his own voice hoarse and weak. “I want to talk to you.

Kirk wordlessly fills Pike’s cup of water and hands it to him, holding it steady so he can sip from the straw. It’s humiliating to be so weak and dependent, but Kirk makes it easier by treating it matter-of-factly. He has come empty handed, not adding to the shrine of flowers and cards that has bloomed at the foot of Pike’s bed, and which in a less lucid moment he has mistaken for a grave. Nor does he ask how Pike is feeling. Instead, he brings the thing Pike has been missing most: information.

“I would have come sooner but they’ve been interrogating us for three days straight,” Kirk says. The cuts and bruises on his face are gone, but his blue eyes are more bloodshot than usual. Pike wonders if they’ve let him get any sleep. “Especially about Nero, and the  _Nerada_ , since you, me and Spock were the only ones who saw it. They actually brought in an artist to make a drawing of the bridge. I told them they should ask Spock; he’s the one with the fucking eidetic memory.”

“Language, cadet,” Pike says because he can.

“Sorry, sir.” Kirk gives him a lopsided, unrepentant smile. “Of course, they asked about you, too. Why you left the ship, why you made me first officer, what condition you were in when we pulled you out. Some of the questions are way too specific, and they keep asking them again and again. My best guess is that they had some intelligence on Nero, maybe a Klingon agent, maybe from the Vulcans. Now they’re trying to convince themselves they couldn’t possibly have anticipated the attack, when you and I both know they started looking the other way after the  _Kelvin_. Nobody wanted the Romulans to be a threat and so they weren’t, and we made them the Vulcans' problem. Well, we sure as hell have to deal with them now.”

Pike is considering this when his vision blurs a little. The word  _Romulans_ , which no one has said around him before now, reverberates in his head, bringing with it a flash of blue, a whiff of fetid air.

“Sir?” Kirk sounds uncertain. “Shall I get the doctor?”

“No,” Pike says, running a hand over his face. “Just pass me that water again.” Kirk does, watching him a little more closely than before. Pike takes a pull from the straw and tries to regroup. “Did they say anything else about me?” It’s a ridiculously egotistical question and not near enough to the one he really wants to ask, the one that’s haunted him during his few waking hours, but he has a foolish desire not to seem weak in front of Kirk. As if he could seem anything else, flat on his back with a half dozen tubes running in and out of him.

“No, sir. Everyone seems to agree that your actions were heroic.” Only Kirk could use that word in such a specific and unfreighted way.

“Don’t know about that,” Pike says, though it’s too late to be self deprecating. He feels half-nauseated with relief. “What about you? Is there a bronze statue in the Quad yet?” It’s a bit obnoxious, but Kirk has done him the courtesy of treating him like a normal person, so Pike thinks he should return the favor.

“Well, they dropped the disciplinary charges against me. It looks like I’ll graduate next month.” He leans back in the chair, folding his arms and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

“That should come as a relief to your instructors.” Kirk laughs, getting the joke on at least one level. Kirk’s tenure at the Academy has been a relentless three-year barrage of charisma, talent and brains that has half his teachers framing his term papers and the other half marking bottles of aged Scotch with his graduation date.

“They’re also talking about a retroactive commission, to lieutenant. It’ll make writing the reports easier, plus they won’t have the embarrassment of admitting they had a cadet at the helm of their biggest boat.”

“That’s it? That hardly seems like an adequate reward for saving the planet.” Pike feels both annoyance on Kirk’s behalf and something like a reprieve. It’s an ungenerous impulse, fed on depression and self-pity, and Pike gives himself a little mental kick in the pants for it. Of course the Federation is getting the greatest possible mileage out of its handsome young savior, Kirk’s considerable merit notwithstanding. The fact that Pike, isolated in his own body and thoughts, hasn’t had to witness the swooning news coverage doesn’t make it any less vivid in his mind.

“Well, sir, you know the Admiralty hates surprises.”  Kirk picks at a loose thread on his crimson trousers, looking glum. “I think they want to understand everything fully before they make any definitive public statements, and recognizing me would be a pretty definitive statement. Or maybe it’ll just be more fun to court-martial me instead of expel me. Right now, between the Vulcans and the Romulans and the time travel and the second Spock, they’re confused as shit. Excuse me, ‘confused as heck.’”

It’s at this moment that Pike belatedly realizes that Kirk has been treating him all along as a first officer would, respecting the chain of command but watching his captain’s back, giving him the frank assessments needed to make an informed decision. Given that Pike’s decision-making is currently limited to apple juice or green tea, he isn’t sure whether Kirk is humoring him, soliciting advice, or just taking the opportunity to vent after having his tubes purged by Starfleet Command. It doesn’t matter in any case, since Dr. Otenga is bearing down on them, tapping her watch and making Kirk mutter “I better go” without trying so much as a smile on her.

“Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” he says, rising to his full, limber height.

Pike shrugs. “Come back if there’s news. These SOBs won’t even tell me who won the game last night. Oh, and send in McCoy, if he’s still out there.”

Kirk puts his heels together and nods, waiting for Pike to nod back, as if he’s being dismissed. It’s a nice gesture and a surprising evolution in sensitivity for a man who in the past has been about as restrained and subtle as a full-grown Newfoundland. Pike realizes he let him go without thanking him for saving his life, but then he isn’t sure he feels the proper gratitude for that yet.

As Kirk leaves, Dr. Otenga swoops in to check the displays that annotate Pike’s state of being, as if suspecting Kirk of moving the readouts in the wrong direction by his mere presence. McCoy enters moments later and hovers uncertainly on the periphery until Otenga waves him over. The two of them stare at the screens and talk quietly about cortisol levels and cerebrospinal fluid, and since Pike doesn’t understand two words out of three, he sees what he can learn from their interaction.

Before Dr. Puri started talking up McCoy for a medical staff position on the  _Enterprise_ , Pike had only known him as Kirk’s friend, a good-looking thirtyish guy perpetually bobbing in Kirk’s wake. They make an odd pair, as McCoy is older, quieter, and more stubbornly intense. The thought that McCoy has been a steadying influence is a bit frightening in light of what Kirk has become in any case.

McCoy is deferential to Otenga, as he should be to one of Starfleet Medical’s senior staff physicians, and Otenga is just shy of collegial in return. McCoy is the  _de facto_  CMO of the  _Enterprise_  and, it seems from the way he’s being treated, likely to keep that position. It’s a career path that holds out the hope of being remembered as something other than the guy who smuggled Kirk on board. Otenga excuses herself to McCoy with a little pat on his shoulder, drifting away without acknowledging Pike. He supposes that with all that telemetry, there’s nothing much that he or his actual, physical body can add in any case. McCoy sits down in the chair Kirk vacated and asks, “What do you want to know, captain?”

+++++

They materialize in a Transporter Room as noisily chaotic as the ship they left behind. There’s too much to process: pain and relief and bright light and shouting. Out of the tumult McCoy appears and smoothly transfers Pike’s weight from Kirk’s shoulder to his own. Kirk glances at Spock, who materialized beside them, and the two bolt from the room without a backward glance. McCoy is scanning Pike with his free hand, barking orders to the medics, including the one who’s supporting Pike’s other arm. Pike wants to ask about the state of the ship, the plan of battle, but his brain seems to be slowing down as quickly as his legs.

They burst into the Medical Bay and Pike is shocked at what he sees: scorched walls, dangling wires, unhygienic dust being kicked up any time someone takes a step. The beds are full, as are the chairs. Pike isn’t sure if it’s still the fallout from the initial attack or if the ship has incurred fresh damage. McCoy and his team hustle Pike toward a vacant biobed and all Pike can think of is Kirk and Spock on the bridge, of the magnitude of the mission that he unknowingly left them: save Earth, save the ship, save the captain. If they’ve gotten to the last one on the list, he hopes it’s because the first two, impossibly, have been accomplished. Pike had made Robau’s choice, to buy time, that most precious of commodities, with his life. He hadn’t meant to leave Kirk to his father’s fate, had actually gotten him off the ship partly for that reason, but it seems Kirk has other ideas anyway. He has found some added dimension to the equations of risk where he is unbound by the expected outcomes. Pike wonders if Spock is finding it any easier to deal with him on the bridge than he did in the Simulation Training Room.

The ship groans and brings Pike’s focus back into the room. Around the biobed, the displays have come alive and Pike’s being prepped for surgery—stripped, scrubbed, shot up. At the next doom-filled, rasping shudder that makes the lights flicker, McCoy mutters, “Is it too much to ask to be able do my goddamned job?” Pike is having trouble focusing. His gaze drifts past McCoy to one of the displays, where he sees, in beautiful three-dimensional color, the image of a human skull and spine with something oval and banded wrapped, like a hideous ornament, around the cervical vertebra. McCoy follows his gaze and then looks back at Pike, frowning, dark eyes intense, almost Vulcan except for their expression.

“You’re going to be  _fine_ , sir,” he says fiercely, and Pike can tell that he’s angry. And Pike believes him, and trusts him from that point forward. It isn’t just a doctorly platitude; it’s McCoy’s mission, and its own form of revenge.

+++++

It’s another hazy, dreamy sunset after another humid, sun-drenched day. In Toubab Dialaw, the succession of perfect days passes unremarked as no more than its due, along with the blue water, the pinkish sand, and the occasional giraffe that wanders into the grounds of the bungalow where they’re staying. It’s their third visit here, and as he walks hand-in-hand with Fatou across the beach, Pike feels the curious anticipatory nostalgia of knowing he will never come here again. Theirs will be an amicable parting, and one that’s been planned for a long time, but Pike feels sweet regret every time he looks into Fatou’s expressive face. There is so much to miss: her good-natured wit, the feel of her hand combing through his hair, the way she—a hydraulic engineer of some repute—fixed the beverage maker that morning by giving it a good, hard whack.

“You’ll never survive in Helsinki,” he teases gently, squeezing her hand. “You’ve probably never even owned a winter coat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I  _love_  snow. It’s skiing I hate. And I think the problem was only that I had a bad teacher.” She wrinkles her nose at him, something else to add to the list.

“You were the one who decided to come down the hill on your rear end instead of your skis.” She shoots him a look. She knows what he’s evading, but it’s their second-to-last day, and the temptation to pull the ripcord is strong. “Helsinki isn’t so far from San Francisco,” he says, giving in as much as he allows himself. Their relationship has been an enjoyably chaotic tumble of time zones and locales, but from here out his shore leaves, when he has them, will hardly permit that.

“But it’s  _very_  far from space. Chris, be good; we’re not children. We owe it to one another, and besides, you have another lady waiting.” She peeks from beneath her long, black lashes, up to where the first stars have started to come out.

“I hate it when people compare ships to women,” he says pettishly. “It’s insulting.”

“To women, or to ships?”

“ _Both_. And it was never about choosing one over the other; you know that.”

“Yes. But you’re going to be happy.” She rises on her bare toes to give him a kiss, final as a period on the end of a sentence. “When you make sacrifices for someone, it makes you love them more. I think that must be true of starships, even if they’re not people.”

It is true, he thinks, as he clasps her hand tighter and pulls her ankle-deep into the warm ocean. For the  _Enterprise_ , he’s put his career on hold for six long years, foregone the rush of space for logistics and budget tables and waiting and waiting and waiting. A week ago, the ship made her rocket-boosted ascent into orbit; in less than a month they’ll fire her engines for the first time. If everything goes according to schedule, she’ll be ready for a shakedown cruise by Spring. The bird has flown, and Pike’s thoughts fly with her, even when his feet are buried in the sand.

+++++

“What the hell’s wrong with me?”

It’s a simple enough question, but it’s been oddly difficult to get anyone here to answer it. Pike can guess the reason: they are professionally reticent to say what they don’t know, conscious of patient morale, maybe even under orders not to divulge anything until Pike has received his overdue debriefing. Whatever it is, he trusts McCoy not to feed him chirpy, optimistic bullshit.

“I haven’t been actively involved in your case for two days, but I can tell you what I think I know.” Pike nods for him to proceed. “When the creature attacks Vulcanoids, it goes right for the brain stem, where it secretes a neurotoxin that shuts down the parts of the brain responsible for what you might call the intellect—judgment, volition, and so forth. The host continues to eat, sleep, and do whatever’s necessary to stay alive for a few weeks while the creature gets ready to…reproduce. At that point, it severs the spinal cord and gives birth to its young, who have a nice, fresh meal waiting for them.” McCoy doesn’t apologize and Pike doesn’t wince, although he takes a moment to remind himself that  _it’s gone, they killed it, McCoy had it out before we left the ship_.

“How delightful,” Pike says, tilting his chin up a little so McCoy won’t think he’s about to lose it.

“Human physiology may have confused it. It caused significant damage to your spinal cord, and on the way, esophageal perforation, a collapsed lung, and other internal damage. The neurotoxin itself dissipated within about 12 hours and doesn’t seem to have had any permanent effect. But the spinal cord…it was, well,  _chewed_.” He winces a little, quite a tell for a hard-as-nails doctor.

“And what’s the upshot of all that?” Pike asks calmly.

“You’re stable and recovering well, captain.” McCoy says. “You’re past the window for infection or complications. But the question is whether the spinal cord damage can be repaired. If it can’t—“ McCoy spreads his graceful doctor’s hands in apology “—we just don’t have the ability to completely  _replace_  spinal cords. There’s research, but I'd call any actual procedures slightly better than experimental.”

“I wonder what the Romulans do, when they get one of these things.”

McCoy frowns. “Don’t know much about them, but I don’t get the sense they have a lot of respect for individual lives.” He clasps his hands together, thoughtful. “They’ve got the top people from the Adelman Institute reviewing your case, sir. If anything can be done—“

“Yes, doctor, I’m sure they’re doing it.” Pike gives McCoy what he hopes passes for a smile. It’s not McCoy‘s fault that Pike’s probing has found uncertainty instead of cover-up. To change the subject, he says, “Did the brass really give Kirk a mauling or was he exaggerating?”

McCoy looks no happier with the new line of questioning. He runs a hand through his black hair and glances at the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure that’s just Jim being unreasonable, sir. I told him he can’t expect any different when the whole sector’s in an uproar. He’s convinced they’re going to try to pin something on him to cover their—well, he thinks he’s a convenient scapegoat.”

“And what do  _you_  think?” McCoy seems to weigh his answer for a moment. He’s got a spotless academic record along with what appears to be considerable professional integrity. Divided loyalties don’t seem to come easy for him.

“Nothing the admirals asked me led me to that conclusion. Jim's sleep deprived and stressed. For some reason, after everything that’s happened, his mind’s still stuck in that disciplinary hearing. Maybe it’s some kind of coping mechanism. Or maybe he just doesn’t know how to let things go.” McCoy shrugs, wrapping his arms around himself. “Maybe that’s what happens when someone’s been trying to kill you since the day you were born.”

+++++

“Last chance if you’re coming along, sir.” The ensign with the manifest PADD gestures toward the transport shuttle, which is vibrating as it powers up its thrusters.

“No, I’m staying put.” Pike waves them off. He’s supposed to be at the Admiralty in the morning, but it won’t be hard to find some pretext to justify his absence. He’s getting sick of meetings, sick of anything that isn’t on the vector of progress. Since the  _Enterprise_ began looking like herself, he hasn’t wanted to be anywhere but in Riverside.

Pike watches the shuttle bay doors close with more than just a sense of personal satisfaction, as if cosmic wheels have been set in motion. It’s likely a sentimental fancy. The kid could wash out during Orientation and be back here working odd jobs by next week. If that happens, Pike thinks, at least he’ll have done his best by George Kirk’s DNA. In all his research, the months he spent poring over the  _Kelvin_  records, reading about George Kirk’s background, trying to get inside his head, he somehow never wondered what happened to the son who was born in the middle of that battle. If he thought about it at all, he assumed the boy must be living offworld with his mother, maybe enrolled earthside in a Federation school, but that in any case, Starfleet would have taken care of him. The son born in space, the father who died to save him, were always a big part of the Kirk legend’s appeal. Last night Pike came face to face with the unintended consequences of that sacrifice. The boy lived, but he grew up without a father, only his father’s reputation looming over him like the half-built hull of the _Enterprise_. Pike took a risk, using that to bait the hook; maybe unfair, but it worked. How that sacrifice will continue to define Kirk, or whether he’ll create a new legend, is up to him now.

+++++

_“Tell me. Don’t make this hard for either of us, Christopher. Just tell me.”_

_The air is dank and cold, Nero’s breath hot against his cheek. The man’s voice is husky from disuse but covers all the octaves of insanity. Strapped down, long since abandoned by his ship, Pike’s only remaining weapon is time. He’ll do anything, say anything, to buy theEnterprise the time it needs._

_“The frequencies, Christopher,” Nero wheedles. “Just give them to me and you can go.” There’s nowhere to go, of course, but that doesn’t mean the idea isn’t alluring. Pike’s not even supposed to be alive at this point. He fully expected to be murdered the moment he set foot on the_  
 _Narada_ _._   _But now he has to string it out like Scheherazade, paying his life out breath by breath so the Enterprise can make her escape._

_“I can’t tell you,” Pike croaks, as Nero’s hand closes around his throat. “Don’t make me, don’t ask me to!” The leather straps are suffocatingly tight across his body, which aches from his ineffectual struggles. He’s thirsty, tired, and light years from any help. He can’t bear this, not another minute--_

_“You will. You_ will _tell me!” Nero screams, brandishing something that Pike can’t quite see, but that fills him with icy dread._

Pike snaps awake with a gasp, sweaty and disoriented in the darkness. He gropes with his right hand and finds a wall where a wall shouldn’t be and his level of panic rises before he remembers where he is. It isn’t his own apartment, but the one in the high-rise above the Bay that Starfleet arranged for him so he wouldn’t have to deal with stairs or steep hills. His pillow is half-soaked and he reaches out for the glass of water by the bed only to remember that he hasn’t bothered to put one there.

He’s had this nightmare a half-dozen times. It nettles not only because of the way it jolts him awake in a cold panic, but because it’s inaccurate. Nero never tantalized him with promises of release. Pike never cravenly begged for his pity, not even to draw out the long minutes until he’d be forced to reveal Earth’s defense codes. It’s the sort of thing his Fleet-assigned counselor would have a field day with if Pike deigned to share it, but the man irritates the hell out of him. He’s a moist-eyed Betazoid with an annoying habit of ending his questions prematurely: “And that made you feel--? And then you realized--?” They told Pike he’d been given drugs in those first few days to help prevent the formation of traumatic memories. The expected after-effects of ordinary stress seemed trivial by contrast: nightmares, insomnia, depression. Pike thinks that “nightmares” doesn’t adequately describe the inquisitions that take place in his dreams, the appearance of a succession of Pikes all less brave and less certain that the one who is now part of the official Starfleet record. He knows the apartment is replete with monitoring devices, the price for this bit of freedom. He wonders who at Starfleet Medical, if anyone, will ask him about his suddenly elevated blood pressure and pulse.  _I was just jerking off, you know_ , he considers saying.  _A guy’s got to have some kind of entertainment_.

He tosses back the covers so he can swing his legs out of bed before he remembers he can’t. That happens a half-dozen times a day, with no less frequency now than in the beginning. He doesn’t feel like wrestling his uncooperative body into the chair just to go to the fridge. Otenga has been nagging him about getting a  _dog_ , of all things. He asked her, with mock incredulity, if that was the best tech Starfleet had to offer. Now he wonders if a dog could fetch a cold beer, maybe take a piss for him. At the very least, it would be some kind of company.

+++++

Ashna Subramanya’s house isn’t large, but it’s in a fantastic location, high in the Sausalito hills, overlooking the Bay. It’s sleekly modern, all white and brushed metal with blinking readouts and efficient storage spaces. Pike’s taste would have run toward a classic Spanish Colonial, but he can’t complain, especially when it’s a gorgeous afternoon, mostly sunny but with the small, fast-drifting clouds making the light dance on the water. They’re sitting on the terrace watching the show, Ashna pouring tea and plying him with biscuits. Ashna is five-foot-not-very-much, with a white streak in the dark hair she keeps tied up in a bun, a hard-set jaw, and a salty tongue. During her tenure as deputy chief of operations, Admiral Subramanya and Pike have disagreed on more things than not, but they remain friends, partly because they forego courtesy and speak frankly to each other. That doesn’t mean Ashna hasn’t treated him with kindness. Inviting him up here for their conversation, for instance, is a welcome escape from the Medical campus that’s been his whole universe for the last month.

“Chris, you son of a bitch,” she sighs without rancor. “I really wish you’d reconsider. Do you have any  _idea_  how hard you’re making my job?”

“Filling the chair on the Fleet’s newest, most powerful heavy cruiser? About as hard as giving away million-credit strips, I’d imagine.”

“Don’t be an ass,” she says, dunking a biscuit in her tea. “You were everyone’s first choice, and it  _still_  took six months to get the appointment through. This is going to be a  _nightmare_. Half the captains in the Fleet calling in every marker they have, and the other half running in the opposite direction. You could at  _least_  put off your decision another month; that would give me some maneuvering room.”

“I’ll consider it,” he says diplomatically. “But it would be more than a bit unfair to the crew. They have their own careers to think about. If there’s a shuffle coming, they deserve to know that.” He doesn’t say that the last thing he wants to do is give Subramanya a chance to hand-pick a candidate.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: assuming Medical can’t pull a miracle out of its behind and get you out of that chair, there’s absolutely no reason you can’t serve as captain. I’ve always thought this business of captains beaming down with landing parties is ridiculous.”

“There’s a case to be made for that,” Pike says, and actually thinks there is. “But that’s not the kind of captain I want to be. I’ve never been comfortable asking my crew to do something that I wouldn’t.”

“Evidently,” she says drily. “I’m sure you would have space-jumped onto that drilling platform yourself, if you hadn’t been otherwise occupied.”

“Yeah, I might have,” he says, returning her smile. “And speaking of Kirk—“

“Don’t!” She averts her face and waves a hand at him. “That’s all anybody does any more. Two more months and that boy is out of our hair. I’m thinking of recommending him for first officer on the  _Chang Heng_. That’s a three-year, deep-space stellar cartography mission, and good riddance.” She shakes her head. “He’s as stubborn as you, but twice as reckless and with half your charm.”

+++++

He’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the background noise of beeps and chimes as constant as on a starship bridge. Contrary to popular stereotype, hospitals are anything but quiet. Everyone is bustling around and doing things three-handed except the patients themselves. Though Pike is technically resting, his body is alive, itching with strange sensations, sending confused pins-and-needles signals more distracting than pain. He has a control pad at his fingertips he could use to medicate himself. Its internal logic ensures safety, that he can do nothing worse than put himself into low orbit, or to sleep. There’s entertainment, if he wants it, on the monitor above his bed, but anything that he has the energy to follow will only insult his intelligence.

Today he went through the first of his debriefings, with as many members of the the  _Narada_  commission as could fit around his bedside. They were polite, almost excessively so; inquired at length after his health and comfort; followed Dr. Otenga’s restrictions to a T; liberally sprinkled the conversation with references to his distinguished service. It ought to have been reassuring, but in his current mood, Pike attributes dark motives to the most innocent questions. Perhaps they’re going easy on him until he’s in better shape. Perhaps they’re trying to lull him into contradicting himself, or one of the other crewmembers. They know so much at this point, so much more than Pike himself, who left his own bridge to become a helpless captive, leaving the real work to children. He abandoned his ship and then betrayed the Federation, and no amount of reassurance is going to change that. Perhaps the worst punishment Starfleet can devise is the one he’s receiving right now, still flat on his back, still helpless, still leaving the decisions to someone else.

“Captain?” The nurse’s voice is like cool water. Pike recognizes him; he comes on for the afternoon shift. “You’re in pain. The point of the meds is to take them before you need them, hmm?” He reaches over with a kind, apologetic smile and taps lightly on the control pad. For a few minutes Pike feels nothing. Then a cottony euphoria wafts through him, easing away thought. He drifts in the space between his ears, grateful that this was one more decision he didn’t have to make.

+++++

Spock walks beside Pike with measured steps, hands behind his back, pretending he is not watching Pike’s progress in his peripheral vision. Pike thinks he’s doing reasonably well with the thought-controlled wheelchair in spite of the tiny hitches and jerks. It seems his brain can’t quit saying “stop” when he gets up any degree of speed, a sad irony for someone who liked to open the throttle to maximum warp on the slightest pretext. He’s asked Spock to accompany him, in part, so Spock can see he’s really recovering. The degree to which Spock is invested in his improving health is as touching as it is mystifying. No one, even on this campus with its myriad losses and cares, has as much to regret as Spock, and no one has been more faithful about visiting him, conferring with him, bringing him news of the outside world. Pike appreciates the fact that he can speak frankly and rationally about his own situation, even if Spock rarely returns the favor. Grief hangs like a weight around him, but he neither mentions it nor betrays it with his eyes or voice. Pike often hears platitudes about the fortunate accident of Vulcan’s victimhood, how well-prepared its people were for the disaster that befell them, and he thinks of Spock, and grits his teeth.

They make their way slowly to the lounge at the end of the hall, the furthest frontier Pike has reached in the last twelve days. It overlooks the courtyard, which is bustling with doctors and a sprinkling of patients clad, like him, in pale green robes. He waves Spock toward a chair, which he obediently takes.

“I haven’t told Starfleet yet. I wanted you to hear it from me first,” Pike says. “I’ve decided to resign my commission as captain of the  _Enterprise_ _._ ”   

Spock’s spine, already ramrod straight, stiffens infinitesimally. “You had, of course, indicated that you were considering that, captain. May I inquire about the reasoning that led to your decision?”

“You may. I have a pretty good picture of the state of my spinal cord, and the news isn’t great. Basically, it’s like Swiss cheese, and even though they’ve been able to stabilize the deterioration, complete repair is going to be a tricky proposition. It could take months, maybe a dozen operations, and assuming it works, there’ll still be a lot of physical therapy after that.” It’s the essence of what he’s been able to get out of Dr. Hu, the spine god: cautious optimism heavily larded with warnings and disclaimers. Less Olympian certainty, more of the old college try. “Eight months minimum before I’d be back on the line, and weeks’ more recovery before I can get started.”

“This procedure sounds more--“ Spock chooses his words carefully “-- _experimental_  than I anticipated. Are you determined to proceed?”

“I haven’t made up my mind. But the alternative isn’t all that promising, either. I can get an upgraded chair, and with some neural amplifiers, I might be able to learn some basic movements, like raising and lowering my knees. But it won’t be enough.” __

“I was unaware that bipedal locomotion was a prerequisite for service in Starfleet.”

“It isn’t, but it’s something I’ve grown accustomed to over the years. It’s going to take months, or longer, for me to adjust. And it’s not—“ Pike struggles; it’s hard to articulate in a way that doesn’t sound egotistical. “It’s not  _me_. It’s not the way I envisioned being captain. I don’t want to be an executive officer glued to a chair in the Ready Room.” He pauses. Spock is too damn easy to talk to.

“When circumstances change, it is often necessary to adjust one’s expectations,” Spock says crisply. From anyone else, it’s a banality; given Spock’s circumstances, it’s devastating.

“That’s very true,” Pike says quietly, “but I’m not just considering myself. The galaxy’s gotten a lot more dangerous. I shouldn’t go out there feeling  _less_  prepared.” He looks openly at Spock; he is never exactly sure if his telepathic abilities extended to truth detection, but he hopes it doesn’t matter. “Believe me, I’m not doing this as some self-indulgent form of martyrdom. It’s not because I don’t fit the image I have in my head of the heroic captain any more. It’s because the  _Enterprise_  deserves the best, and I can’t be that right now. I wish like hell I could, but I can’t.”

Spock nods slowly, eyes never leaving Pike’s. “Then I must accept your decision, captain. No doubt there are many other capacities in which you can provide great value to Starfleet, assuming you wish to continue in service.”

After having rehearsed this conversation so often in his head, it’s a relief to have it over with. Pike feels a faint tremor of aftershock go through him, but there’s satisfaction as well. He’s taken the first step on what’s going to be a very long road, and he hasn’t found himself wanting. He knows Spock has been fighting these internal wars as well, and understands.

“Yes,” Pike says briskly, smacking his hands against his thighs, feeling a distant echo of pressure where sensation used to be. “So that leaves the question of who’s going to take my place. I don’t have to tell you, Spock,  that you’re my first choice, and I’m sure everyone else’s as well.”

“I am grateful for your confidence in me, captain,” Spock says slowly. “But there’s a better than 95 percent chance that I will be resigning my commission in favor of a post with the New Vulcan Authority.”

“That high, huh? I’m sure you’ve factored into the equation everything you could do for Vulcan, not mention the rest of the Federation, in command of its flagship.”

Spock’s gaze slides away and he says, with almost practiced certainty, “Vulcan’s needs are much more basic than what a starship can provide: water, shelter, agriculture, communications.” He pauses. “Home. That is what my people need.”

“I understand, of course. But the Federation’s more than willing to provide those things you mentioned, as are a dozen planets. Do you really think you’d serve your people best as a  _plomeek_  farmer?” It isn’t a facetious question, and Spock doesn’t take it that way. Instead, he drops his eyes and stares at his hands, which are folded in his lap. 

“That is for the Authority to decide. What is apparent is that I am unsuited for the role of captain of a Starfleet vessel.”

“And how the hell did you conclude that?”

“During my brief tenure as captain of the  _Enterprise_ , I managed to lose my home planet, allowed the enemy to escape, jettisoned the first officer, and instigated a near-lethal fight on the Bridge. Had Lieutenant Kirk not intervened to remove me from command, Earth would likely have been lost as well.” His lips form the thin suggestion of a brutal smile. “Whatever my academic qualifications, I believe my performance record outweighs them.” Pike listens to the litany of self-condemnation and feels ill. Spock, with his unparalleled ability to internalize any problem has chosen to aim this one, like a weapon, at himself.

“You had no way to save Vulcan. You  _know_  you didn’t.” Pike is firm, almost harsh.

“On the contrary, I have posited three different scenarios under which, at minimum, I could have provided enough time for at least a partial evacuation of the planet.” His voice is clipped, but Pike can hear the vibration of anxiety beneath it. “I am sure, in time, I will think of others. It should make an excellent training scenario for future generations of cadets.”

“Take this advice from me, Spock,” Pike says with as much gentleness as he thinks Spock will tolerate. “I’ve been down that road, and it leads nowhere. What happened was Nero’s fault and nobody else’s. If anyone can think up the impossible, and convince himself that he should have done it, it’s you. But it would be a terrible waste.”

Spock nods infinitesimally, staring at his hands. He listens to Pike, and Pike isn’t quite sure why, except that despite his vast knowledge, Spock is still a very young man. His father is on Earth now, but perhaps too preoccupied to remove the weight of guilt from his son’s shoulders. Pike wishes there were someone to give him the same absolution, and wonders if he would accept it.

“So here we are,” Pike continues when Spock is able to meet his eyes again. “If neither of us is going to be captain, someone has to.” He tosses the next question out casually, as if there were nothing riding on it. “Who’s your pick?”

Pike can tell right away he knows the answer, and is only considering how to frame his reply. “There are many fine officers in the Fleet deserving of promotion.”

“So there are.”

“A ship of the size and power of the  _Enterprise_ , with such a large crew and so vital to Starfleet’s mission, deserves a captain of the highest capabilities and experience.”

“That she does.”

“But in my opinion—“ the hard glint has made its way back into his eyes. “In my opinion, the only logical selection is Lieutenant Kirk.” Pike feels elation and a sharp pang of regret at the same time. If Pike and Spock are thinking the same thing, if they can make it happen, there will indeed be no possibility of Pike ever returning as captain of the  _Enterprise_.

“Logical? Since when is anything about Jim Kirk logical?”

“Lieutenant Kirk is impulsive, undisciplined, and inexperienced,” he says, with the tiniest bit of satisfaction. “He also possesses what humans refer to as  _instinct_ , but we call  _tvi-ozhika_ —literally, internal logic, a command of reasoning so perfect that one need no longer go through any conscious mental process. It is one of the highest achievements of the  _Kohlinar_ , and a dangerous pursuit, as willfulness or egotistical self-regard may often be mistaken for  _tvi-ozhika._ How Kirk came to possess this ability, I have no idea. Nonetheless, he defeated a determined enemy in a more powerful vessel without losing a single life. Had you and I both perished, it would still have been a remarkable achievement. But Kirk demanded nothing short of total victory and methodically executed a plan to attain it. This ability is of such high value that—in my opinion—it overrides the many other objections.” He pauses, and cocks an eyebrow at Pike. “Do you find my assessment accurate?”

“I do,” Pike says with a sigh. “And you’re right, he’s going to need a lot of help, first and foremost getting back into that chair. Starfleet Command is rattled and skittish and not in the mood for taking risks. I’m going to do what I can, but I doubt it will be enough.”

“I am sure your opinion will carry great weight.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. I can get in the door, anyway. Beyond that—your opinion will carry a lot of weight, too, especially given your history with him. What about the Vulcan High Council? Can you get them on board?”

Spock inclines his head, pondering. “It is possible, although their position is somewhat precarious. I doubt, given Vulcans’ reliance on the Federation at present, that they would be eager to intervene in internal Starfleet politics.”

“Then what else can we use?” Now that the worst is past, Pike feels excited, actively engaged for the first time in weeks in something outside the four walls of his hospital room. “We’ve got to move fast. I’ve held off making any formal announcement. Admiral Subramanya thinks it’s so she can built support for her chosen candidate, but I don’t want to give her enough time to do that.”

Spock eyes him narrowly. “I offered you my opinion. I do not recall saying that I was willing to engage in a campaign on Kirk’s behalf.”

Pike returns Spock’s ghost of a smile in full measure. “I’m still captain of the  _Enterprise_ , and you’re still my first officer. We owe it to her, Spock. We owe it to her and all the beings whose lives will be safer with Kirk behind the wheel. If you’re not willing to do it for the ship, or for Kirk, I’m asking you to do it for me.”

Spock listens respectfully, then bows his head briefly. “I am, as always, honored by the trust you place in me, captain.”

“Well, then.” Pike is more moved than he expected, and regretful that the relationship between them that has grown by millimeters over the past six years is apparently coming to an end. “What have you got?”

He steeples his fingers. “It might be argued that the improbability of Kirk’s rapid ascent is, in itself, an indication that it is the desired outcome.”

“I hate that whole ‘meant to be that way’ line of reasoning," Pike complains. He’s not alone in feeling deeply uncomfortable with the idea of his other-universe doppelganger; it’s gotten so you can’t get served coffee instead of tea by mistake without someone making a nervous joke about the “timeline trying to right itself.”

“Nevertheless, such an argument might be particularly compelling coming from the ambassador.” Pike knows who Spock is talking about, and gets a little chill. Spock at his most determined is as relentless as Kirk and less humane, particularly to himself.

“You haven’t gotten any…information from him, have you? Is this more than an educated guess?”

The word “guess” has its predictable effect on Spock, who looks slightly affronted. “I have not talked to him at all. However, we can infer from the fact that he incited Kirk to remove me from command that he endorses the idea, at least in those circumstances.”

“All right, so we’ll count the ambassador in. Me and two Spocks? That’s a good start.”

+++++

“Chris! Oh, Chris, at last. It’s so good to see you.” Fatou’s face fills the vid screen, bringing with it pleasure and pain. “I couldn’t get anyone to tell me where you were, or to let me talk to you. Family only, they said. Finally I remembered that friend of yours, Archer? He put me through.” She halts, out of breath, relief and concern in her face.

Now that the curious isolation-bubble period of his recuperation is over, they’re coming out of the woodwork: old shipmates, Academy buddies, his brother who lives on Beta Anzara and a cousin from San Diego. They all ask the same thing:  _What can we do?_  Pike has no ready answer, one of the many reasons he blocks the calls. “I’m coming there,” Fatou says decisively, when he says nothing. “I can be there by tomorrow.”

“No, don’t,” and then, to soften it, “It’s the end of the semester, don’t abandon your students. Come visit in the summer, if you want.” He knows she won’t, and he won’t ask. It’s cowardly, but the last thing he wants now is comparisons: now versus then. His world has narrowed to doctors and admirals and a steady diet of Fleet news, Fleet gossip, Fleet politics. He’s turning into what he always promised himself he wouldn’t, but at least it’s better than what he is: the grounded shadow of the person who left her to go to space, and fell back to Earth.

“I will,” she says, reaching for the button to switch off the link before he can see the tears. “You know I’ll always love you.”

+++++

Pike chooses an old oak tree in the Botanical Gardens for their meeting place. It’s a bit of self-indulgent fancy on his part. He’s a passionate lover of history, and most of all of English history, in which oak trees figure so prominently. Kirk, already waiting under the tree, won’t see any noblemen ride up on horses, just Pike rolling toward him.

Kirk rises to shake hands and then sits down again so he will be lower than Pike. It’s another one of those marks of sudden maturity that come to Pike like still images, now that his life has slowed and Kirk’s has sped up.

“You’ve heard the news, I suppose?” Pike asks.

“About your promotion? Yes, sir. Congratulations.” His thick eyebrows are raised and expectant. He knows that isn’t what Pike called him here for.

“The obvious question, since you’re not going to ask it, is who’s taking the Enterprise.”

“Well, sir, I know it’s not Spock. He says he’s going to New Vulcan with his father, now that they’ve settled on a location.”

“That’s right. And do any other candidates come to mind?” It’s not a test; the decision has already been made. He’s merely curious.

Kirk wraps his arms around his bent knees and tightens them a little. “To be honest, sir, I’ve been concentrating too much on making sure I graduate to keep up with the Fleet gossip. And frankly,” he says with a wistful smile, “if you’re not commanding the  _Enterprise_ , it’s not likely I’ll be posted to her. In fact, I don’t know if I’ll be posted  _anywhere_. There aren’t exactly captains lining up out the door to put me on their vessels. At least that’s what my adviser tells me.” He’s making a joke of it, but there’s more than a hint of anxiety. He may be confident in his own ability, but he’s finding out what effect it has on others.

“I wouldn’t worry about that for now.” Pike has had his fun; the tooth has to come out now. He tugs on the hem of his uniform so it sits neat and straight. “Lieutenant Kirk, on behalf of Starfleet Command and the United Federation of Planets, I wish to inform you that you are being promoted to the rank of captain and assigned to the  _U.S.S. Enterprise_. For purposes of fitting out your ship and selecting your crew, this promotion is effective immediately, although the Admiralty is planning a ceremony for the official hand off.” He allows himself a smile. “You know how they like their ceremonies."

Kirk could hardly have looked more surprised if the Moon had fallen on him. He gapes at Pike, breath coming as fast as if he’d run a race, lightning brain scanning for signs it was a joke, a test, or a feint of some kind. Pike had felt no less thunderstruck himself when they promoted him to admiral, although he’d pulled himself together quickly enough to let them know that he didn’t intend to be a figurehead. In the same way, through all the intense, closed-door lobbying for Kirk’s promotion, he’s made it clear that there can be no asterisk beside his rank, no overbearing first officer or short leash back to the Admiralty.

“I don’t know what to say,” Kirk stammers, scrambling to his feet and brushing off the grass off his trousers.

Pike reaches into the side pocket of his chair and pulls out an old-fashioned sheet of cloth paper. “You don’t have to say anything, unless you know of any reason you shouldn’t accept this commission.” He holds it out to Kirk. It’s one of Starfleet’s beloved old Naval traditions: a commissioning letter full of antique verbs, signed by the Federation president and festooned with ribbons and seals, suitable for framing. Kirk, still half in a dream, takes it gingerly from him. Pike is amused to see the brilliant student silently mouthing the words as he reads. The paper trembles a little in his hands.

Finally, he looks up. “ _You_ did this, didn’t you? The admirals had no idea to what to do with me. I think half of them wanted me court-martialed, and the others probably wanted me to rot on some cargo ship until I was ‘old enough’ for command. How did you persuade them? How is this possible?”

“Anything’s possible. I thought you knew that.” Kirk’s face is set and determined; he won’t settle for a facetious answer. “All right, it took a lot of lobbying. A _lot_. And you have more friends than you might realize. But you’re right, there are plenty of people here who don’t think you’re ready for this yet, but the simple fact is that it’s sinking in how much danger the Federation is in. We lost a quarter of our heavy cruisers, half our graduating class, and our greatest ally. People can be very—illogical, but fear is often an effective motivator. Starfleet is going to throw up every obstacle imaginable, intentionally or not, and they’re going to count on you to keep saving everyone’s bacon in spite of it. The expectations are ludicrously high, but at least with the  _Enterprise_ , you’ve got a fair shot.”

Kirk nods curtly. “I’m going to need my crew—- _my_ crew. And I’m going to need your help, sir. Air cover. I can’t go on deep space missions and keep my eye on the Admiralty at the same time.”

“Of course,” Pike says, and before the words are out of his mouth, Kirk is grinning.

“You knew that I’d need that. That’s why you accepted the promotion. Sir, I—“ he breaks off, and his eyes grow bright. If it’s tears, Pike doesn’t blame him a bit. “Spock—the other one—told me that in his universe, I was captain of the  _Enterprise_ , and that my father lived to see it, and was proud of me.” He drops his head and kicks at a gnarled root of the old tree, fighting to spit out what he wants to say. “I’m sorry he didn’t live to see this day. But, sir, I’m glad you did.”

“So am I, son.” It's the only time he'll let himself say it. Kirk doesn't need a father now as much as he needs an ally. Still, Pike doesn't reproach himself for how he feels. It's a good thing, when you send other people's children into danger, to have an idea of what you're risking.

The afternoon light is slanting across the garden. It’s a warm day, and a fair number of Starfleet bees have come out of their hives to soak up the sun or amble around the paths. Pike can feel curious eyes focused on Kirk, already such a familiar figure, standing with his head bowed in front of the admiral. He reaches out to shake hands and Kirk holds on for a few seconds. Pike can feel his pent-up energy like tension in a live wire. If he's anything like Pike, his mind is already high above, where the  _Enterprise_ floats in spacedock. If he's anything like Pike, it has been there since the moment he set foot on her.

“And now, Captain Kirk," he says gruffly, "you'd better get moving. You’ve got a ship to fit out.”

+++++

Applause blows over them like fallen leaves. Kirk is resplendent, proud and humble at the same time, basking in the recognition of a hall full of people who are no longer his peers. There’s not an empty seat, thanks to the addition of a few hundred underclassmen. It’s a gesture of proud defiance rather than an attempt to paper over disaster. A larger-than-usual class will be admitted this year; a few thousand reserves have been activated, and more will be soon. A quarter of the graduating class will already be on active duty and will miss Commencement. Recruiting is suddenly at the forefront of everyone’s mind, and Pike has a good idea whose face will be on the promotions. It’s wartime in all but name, and Pike is perfectly content to play his role in this morale-building pageant.

As the convocation breaks up, a cluster of people gather around Pike, and a larger one around Kirk. As he shakes hands, Pike can see McCoy taking his place at Kirk’s side, then Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov. They’re his bridge crew; Kirk has already told Starfleet they’re who he wants, and he’s likely to get them. The flagship will be flying with the youngest captain in history by a full decade, and with a navigator who technically hasn’t graduated yet, but there’s a palpable, almost giddy optimism in the air, a sense of unbounded possibility. For the first and only time that afternoon, Pike regrets that he’s not shipping out on the  _Enterprise_ or anywhere else.

Kirk is heading out the door with his entourage, and Pike thinks that he better get used to it. Command is only metaphorically lonely. The crowd around Pike dissipates as well, and he finds himself beside President Barnett, who is watching the retreating coronal glory of Kirk and shaking his head.

“These are strange times,” Barnett says. He has seen a dozen classes graduate, has the world-weary air of someone who no student can shock, but he looks slightly dazed. “A cadet is captain of the  _Enterprise_ , and Chris Pike is deputy chief of operations under Admiral Subramanya. Oh, you and Ashna are going to have some epic battles! I’m glad we’re on the other side of the Bay. Still, I have to say I’m impressed with what you’ve done so far. Pulling this off was quite an accomplishment. I saw Nogura actually  _smiling_ earlier—he hasn’t done that in weeks.”

“You’re right, that’s no small accomplishment,” Pike says. “Well, it may not be flying into the great unknown, but I think I can get something useful done. More than move a stack of papers from one side of my desk to the other, anyway.”

“That’s what they all think in the beginning,” Barnett says with a dry chuckle. “Bureaucracy is a force stronger than gravity. You’d better keep an eye on your boy, though. Everyone’s waiting for him to make a mistake, and when he does, the fingers are going to point in your direction.”

“He’s nobody’s boy,” Pike says, a little more sharply than he intended. “He’s his own man. And I don’t doubt he’ll make mistakes. But if that’s what you’re waiting for, you’re missing the point.”

+++++

September is Pike’s favorite time in Yosemite. The waterfalls may have dried to a trickle, but the nights are crisp, the stars are clear, and the summer crowds are mostly gone. He'd planned to spend one night in the valley before heading into the back woods, but he finds he’s enjoying the easy sociability, the way people drift from campfire to campfire. Darcy, as usual, is a wingdog of the first order. Though most people are smart enough not to pet her, it gives them something to talk about. It certainly worked with Liz, the woman from three tents away, who raved about Darcy and her late, beloved cockapoo for fifteen minutes before inviting Pike over later for Moroccan stew and pinot noir. Like Pike and, he suspects, a lot of the single campers, she’s celebrating her independence. She’s broken up with her girlfriend and Pike is more than happy to be the semi-anonymous rebound fling. She didn’t ask his last name or what he did for a living. It’s still strange to look down and see a flannel shirt and jeans instead of a uniform.

The late afternoon light catches the climbers still on the face of El Cap. Rock climbing is one of the sports he just doesn’t get. He loves sailing and skiing, playing in the stream of gravity and being played with, not struggling tooth and nail against it, but everyone’s tastes are different. He looks forward to doing some exploring himself tomorrow. The new antigrav chair can do 20 kph at three meters off the ground, which should be enough to startle some hikers and stay out of the way of any bears. This weekend was supposed to be his last outing before the surgeries began, but as he smells cumin wafting through the trees, he begins second-guessing his decision again. He hates the thought of losing the degree of freedom he already enjoys, and he’s adjusted to it well enough that the day-to-day annoyances have become part of the ordinary background noise of his life. As for the bigger things, he realizes he can still sail and ski, just not exactly the same way he used to.

Tonight, assuming he’s not curled up in Liz’s sleeping bag, he’ll watch the constellations rise over Half Dome. The pang that he’ll feel will be as familiar as an old friend. He’s read that old sailors said they could still hear the sea from the safety of their beds far inland, and he supposes he’ll never stop feeling that way about space. It doesn’t matter. He’s perfectly at peace, knowing Kirk is out there, man and ship and universe, all in order at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Many of the characters in this story (including Darcy) appear in [The Light of Distant Skies](http://archiveofourown.org/series/8201) series I co-wrote with [merisunshine36](/users/merisunshine36).


End file.
